


MMXII

by Elyssian



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2012 AU, Angst, Multi, Post-apocalyptic AU, Uncommon Pairing, not a zombie fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elyssian/pseuds/Elyssian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2012, a global attack on two hundred odd countries left only 20 of the immortal species alive. In the years after, the survivors must face the fallout and look for the killers of their families. In the aftermath, odd bonds are formed. But in the fray, the threat of another attack rises. Will the killers finish the job? And not everyone is as clueless about the 2012 event as they seem…<br/>(In this au, nations can teleport to another nation if their bond is strong enough. Sorry if its wierd. Some divergences from canon. Kinda dark. People die. No Human Names at the start.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

01: Time Of Death

_[In the year 2012, a war like no other erupted. Dubbed at first ‘The Apocalypse’, then ‘WWIII’, the horrific events of December 2012 have been christened ‘Terra Ira’._

_With the unexpected chain reaction set forth by untimely natural disasters, followed by an economical collapse, it was given the fitting final name by the post-war Italian Governor._

_Earth's Wrath.]_

Excerpt from Insight on Terra Ira.

 

* * *

 

France, Versailles  
December 5th, 2012

World Meeting for December 2012

Germany found that the lack of noise, usually generated by countries bustling about, unsettling. It would, for once, not require him to raise his voice to initiate the meeting itself despite not being the host.

The host in question, France, had been eyeing him since his entry and Germany could very easily guess why. It seemed that neither wanted to push forth the meeting. Both for once seemed to agree; the subject of this impromptu summons was… morbid. And one does not actively desire the presence of morbid things.

A quiet cough, then a cleared throat. The tension between France and Germany eased as America drew the room's attention to him, settling the silent debate.

The world power seemed to shrink (an odd sight) under the shift of pressure, then he recollected himself and began to address the hundred odd listeners.

“Okay, um, evening dudes.”

England began to grumble.

“Get to the point.”

America glared and resumed.

“For those of you are still half sure the message we sent out was bullshit, I assure right here and now; it's true.”

At once, whispers rose like mist, dark murmurs and gasps. Soon exclamations and demands for proof arose.

“-spouting nonsense again-”

“-would like to see some proof-”

“-absolutely impossible-”

This, Germany had to do, since the investigation had been left in his hands on November 21st (the ‘why’ was still fathomable). It was too short a time for a full comprehensive investigation but apparently enough time for rumours to run wild.

He glanced at the file in his hands. The pictures. Should he simply pass them out? It would be shocking, but many here were already numbed by centuries of living (a despised skill; there some things not meant to be unfazed by).

He spread the pictures. There were, give or take, around fifty. It took five minutes to circulate and silence the mass. Germany gave a nod to America. He looked queasy, but nodded back.

“We've timed the first death at November 21, and the rest followed after in quick succession. No deaths occurred after December 1st. Yet.”

America paused to swallow.

“The common details is that all them were one of us,”

The silence grew more oppressive.

“All died around the time a small to medium ranged natural disaster or uproar like riots struck their houses. We assume this made them vulnerable and somehow is linked to how they were able to die.”

Assume. The word itself amplified the uneasiness. And America never admitted that he did not know.

“And lastly, they were alone. A few other nations were nearly attacked but whatever it was receded the second another nation was in vicinity. But none of them have a clear shot the attackers. We only know they attack in numbers, and before the natural disasters occurs.”

America paused and look them all in the eye.

“I advise, that until we know more, stuck with a large group. They might try attacking pairs or threes next.”

Three weeks later America was dead.

 

* * *

 

December 20, 2012  
Moscow,Russia

 

“Shush. Liet, hear that?”

Poland's smirk dropped and he crouched behind a low wall, pulling Lithuania with him. Their earlier banter (and some non-banter) was sharply cut off, and the sudden quiet amplifying the noise.

Dried leaves crunching.

Lithuania peaked through the decorative lattice on the wall, chewing a lip. He whispered to Poland.

“No else is supposed to be at the east section.”

Tensions had been alarmingly high that month, and a combination of fear and desperate pleading convinced Poland to seek refuge with Lithuania at Russia's house.

Apparently, they weren't the only ones. Czech and Slovakia were already there with the rest of the Baltics when Poland arrived. A day later Moldova had been dragged in with his brother and Bulgaria in. The morning after, Poland caught Mongolia stomping around the kitchen, then Siberia lurking in a corner.

It seemed most of them had needlessly thrown old connections in an effort to gain shelter; Russia was very pleased to have company. The only ones that seemed to mutually share his feelings were his sisters and to an extent his brothers and the baltics.

There were all here for one reason; _if it wasn't safe here, it wouldn't be safe anywhere else._

Thankfully, Russia had only imposed several simple rules, like not to mess up his manor and not to walk around alone. Poland had gleefully glued Lithuania to his side and held back his remarks as Belarus snapped into place beside Russia.

Something else everyone else agreed on; they would occasionally patrol a certain section of the house.

The enemy, though identity still a mystery, were suspected to be a stupidly ballsy type. Only a fool would try to siege Switzerland's property while his sister was away.

_(But no fool would have won, whispered the bad, dark voice in Poland's mind.)_

It appeared their foolishness had this time prompted them to attack Russia's house.

_(Would they win this? Asked the dark voice.)_

Lithuania and Poland were patrolling East; Czech and Slovakia at west; Estonia and Latvia at North; Romania and Bulgaria at South. Ukraine, Siberia, Mongolia and Russia went around; Moldova had been convinced to roam the house with Belarus in case someone broke through.

Fourteen people in total.

“Should we, like, take them? I totally think that the both of us are, like, strong enough.”

Poland prodded Lithuania. Plan making was his skill; Lithuania tended to fret so much that his plans were near fail safe. Poland finds the stress fretting in turn produces unhealthy habits.

“Should see what it first. Ukraine should be coming around soon right?”

Asses the situation, then circulate the data. A vague plan, but nothing wrong with it. And vague plans leave for much adjusting.

They watched as a girl crept out of the foliage. That was it. A girl, short black hair, combat gear and no older than twenty at most. Lithuania was tempted to ask if she was lost.

Then her companions crept out.

Poland hissed, and whipped out his phone.

_{Breach in the east side, led by some girl.}_

But before he could hit send, two messages popped up.

_{North side breeched.}_

_{got a mini army here on South side.}_

Poland hit send in alarm, nearly putting his thumb through his phone as Czech reported a breach on his side too.

It was four pronged assault.

Russia's message was on the screen when he looked again, a short order for the wandering patrol to stay in between the pairs to cover their weaker sides and a request for Belarus to get the machine gun. (Wait, what?) Then he asked them to stand ground if they could. Notably, ‘if they could’ which meant Russia was worried about their chances. Lithuania, peering down the lit screen, suddenly doubted himself. Russia knew something they did not.

“Okay Liet, we just got asked to, like, totally cream these guys. Got your gun?”

Lithuania lifted his jacket to show four holsters. Poland grinned and whistled a high pitched two-note.

“Just like old times?”

“Just like old times.”

The intruders whipped their heads around, hearing the definite sound of something that was not a bird. Seconds later Poland's immortal horse shot out from a corner and ploughed through them.

 

* * *

 

London, England  
December 20, 2012

 

Scotland was not an empathetic man.

Nations in general were arguably the same. To be friends one second and forsake all bonds the next because of the whims of humans. Most their actions and interactions were based on the actions of their people and governments. Pessimist nations (which he would not admit to being) argued the legitimacy of their own actions and found it improbable that you could empathise emotions that did not belong to the person in question.

Wales is used to the sight of his red-headed older brother brooding about a dark corner. Unless France is here. His mood would near jovial (or as near to jovial it could be). But his mood would be nothing but sour if he was in vicinity of England.

Wales didn't like England that much either but Scotland was nearing hate at that rate. Northern Ireland it seemed was the only one who had a semblance of brotherly love directed at England. (The less said about the Republic of Ireland the better. One did not take well to heavy discrimination over the years.)

Wait… there would be one other person who threw no hate in England's direction. The youngest brother, that micronation Sealand. Cute thing he was. Sleeping in the living room couch last he checked.

He was probably going to be the first to die tonight.

As if sensing his thoughts, England strode in with his customary scowl toting one Irish twin, and noticeably without the rest of the pair.

“Did you offer up Republic as a get away lamb?”

The flow of Wales's phonetics have always annoyed England, and the deepening of the scowl now calms him. Calms him because it is normal, and normal in times like these is very much appreciated.

England's voice shatters his illusion quite painfully.

“We are going to die tonight.”

The flat, resignation is not normal. It's alien. Cold and unfamiliar. Wales tries to adjust but his voice is an uncharacteristic whisper.

“Then they are what we suspected them to be?”

The confirmation silence is enough.

“Then we die.”

Scotland had always been harsh. Even as death bears down on him, he faces it scowling.

“Where's Republic?”

North's smile wavers. And he floats to Wales, leaning to whisper in his ear.

“Only the five of us die tonight.”

Wales stares. North smirks.

“Don't tell Scotland.”

Wales realises and stares at England's back. Soon enough he spots the blood where a flag should be.

* * *

 

Washington DC, USA.  
December 20, 2012

 

Mexico distinctly remembered what she was doing one hour before.

Mexico had peered out the window of the White House. The crowds couldn't see her (unless they had really good binoculars) but she could see them and the large print words on the banners they've brought. Most prominently on display were the words,

**THE MAYAN APOCALYPSE IS HERE!**

She had winced and withdrew.

The Oval Office was as grand as it ever was, though very little of the grandness was visible between the throng of officials. A hefty mix of government members from America were there; Canada's were scheduled to come later as the airport was buried under snow, while Mexico and Cuba's were on the way. Canada himself though was there, having whisked himself here ahead but Cuba was with his officials.

Mexico had observed the object of the Northern country's attention. (And perhaps the attention of the humans too.)

America was pacing the room, silent and distant. Canada by then had resorted to chewing on a nail.

“Hermano, pace harder and the floor will burst into flames.”

America knew enough to stop and give her a smile but the humans had cast worried glances to the floor. Humans, even those they had known for a while, overestimated them. It was funny and America began to tease them.

Mexico wonders how she moved from then to frantically running about the White House, and hearing the cries of alarm beside actual alarms.

She caught sight of America running down the halls, so very pale and distraught and unlike him. He spotted her and ran forward, inhuman speed nearly bowling over unfortunate office members.

“Mexico!”

He grabs her, to which she protests, and drags her away, pushing through a panicked mass.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Find Canada-”

“I repeat, what the hell is going on?”

Mexico had enough strength to dig her heels in and stop America, and she nearly comments on how unheroic he's acting.

“My nuclear warheads.”

That sentence stopped her.

“They've hacked in my system. Every bomb I have, including the nuclear ones, are set to fire on myself in five minutes and forty five seconds.”

That sentence stops her from talking at all.

America places his hand on her shoulder and shakes. Hard.

“Listen! I can redirect some of the bomb to intercept yours and Canada's but I can't get them all-”

This sentence forces her voice back into her throat. Violently.

“What do you mean?”

America starts to look melancholic, until Mexico punches him in the chest. He wheezes and gives her an exasperated look.

“The same thing is happening over the rest of North and South America. I only have enough to make sure you and Canada don't die.”

Mexico senses a but. Senses a ‘but’ she will not like.

“It won't matter if you and Canada are stuck here. Take him to your house. Your capital should be safe.”

Mexico registers the words too clearly, the hidden intonation that this is his dying wish.

“Why-”

“Canada won't go if I asked him to. You have to force him.”

America wheels her around and shoves her towards a corridor.

“He's in the west wing. Go!”

Mexico was given one last push before her brother disappeared into the mass.

* * *

 

**IT IS DECEMBER 21ST.**

**AND THE [PROTOCOL] HAS BEEN ACTIVATED.**

**PHASE TWO WILL NOW COMMENCE.**


	2. From the Wreckage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first hour of the aftermath is painful, messy and the start of a whole new set of problems.

December 22

Mexican border

Canada knew what was happening. He overheard them. Talking freely because they did not notice him.

_(The word had been whispered. Nuclear.)_

He knew why Mexico was coming for him. It was written on her face. To help him, because his own strength was not enough to make him move.

So he let her drag him, dump him on her borders before the wind, the force of explosions nowhere near them, buffets them and sends them flat against the ground.

His ears ring and his vision hazes. His spectacles shatter, glass blown away with dirt and rock that scratch his face.

Both lie on the ground, unmoving, as they feel America's presence fade.

 

* * *

 

December 22  
Berlin, Germany

They had drifted, slowly. Unclear. Orders were given to them, yes, but they needed finer orders. Clearer orders.

They had been asked to perform their functions, but their mission felt incomplete. There was the one remaining target, but there was already a group who had spilt off for her. There was something else here-

The group turns, as one falls in an unnatural twist. They back away, as the second person's head crumples under pale fingers.

They do not get to shoot, or defend, as the unforeseen newcomer kills them with practice, skill and morbid grace.

The next group falls the same way. The one after that manages to shoot once, but misses. The sweep of death is short; in the end, he gets the outcome he desires. He is alone.

Liechtenstein hears them fall. And she must see, with her own eyes. So she pushes past strewn debris, pushing away broken doors to find the pale figure, paler in the silver of moonlight.

“You're alive.”

Her voice caries, and he turns to her slowly, tiredly. She watches his eyes trail over the blood on her hands, and the gun she slips behind the flounce of her dress. He meets her eyes and she continues, carefully.

Perhaps if she does not ask questions, he will not either.

“He was always sure you were.”

Something flickers in the depth of scarlet irises, raw pain and sadness that seemed to shiver. He winces, and she tries harder to seem thankful.

“You came back.”

A beat of silence as Liechtenstein realises that those were not the words she should have said to Prussia.

“I'm too late.”

The raspy, unused voice gives form to grief and he lets his eyes wander to two bodies. Close, as they were in life. Both used to be enemies, and good friends once. His eyes trace the limp strands of walnut hair strewn over a body, creeping to her companion. Prussia spies the glint of glass in his face.

“Where is he?”

She knows who ‘ _he’_ is.

“Upstairs. Will you help him?”

Prussia sags and drifts towards the stairs.

“All I've ever been able to do is kill.”

Liechtenstein draws out of the shadow, pausing him before the flutter of ragged cloth disappears.

“Then at least you can send him off happy.”

“Will he be happy?”

The absolute faith in Liechtenstein's answer gives him what he need to open that one door.

“He will always be happy to see his brother.”

Prussia rests a hand on the door.

The door sweeps open silently, but jarringly in its half broken state. Prussia's eyes are drawn to the bright flare of blond hair in the middle of the burnt mess. Twin spots of dull azure lighten when he sees him.

Germany exhales in a shuddering breath, his voice so filled with ache, with longing.

With love.

“Bruderlein.”

_Dear brother._

Prussia softens as he comes closer, as he always was with his precious younger brother. He kneels down to brush stray locks away and whispers softly.

_“My brave, little eagle.”_

The old german makes both smile; the memories the endearment brings make their bodies thud and and their minds remember other days.

“I always knew you were still here.”

Prussia chuckles, and trails an affectionate hand down his cheek.

“So much trust, so much faith, in such a hopeless person.”

He smiles.

“You see a hopeless person, I see my wonderful, awesome older brother.”

Prussia has never been more sorry, more regretful than that moment. He lifts one of Germany's hands and cradles it in his lap.

“Your brother has failed. I should have never left.”

Germany's grip tightens as much as it can.

“I hurt you. I was not kind, not fair, not grateful to you. If you have failed as my brother I have made a disaster of being yours.”

Prussia lift the hand to his lips and closes his eyes. Berlin's night breeze ghosts past their prone forms, and the moon's light dulls as a film of cloud passes over.

“You have grown so well.”

“That is entirely your fault.”

They chuckle, and Germany coughs. Prussia's worry drowns him once more, and his eyes lose their humour.

“You were supposed to be the one watching me leave.”

“I did, all those years ago.”

There, there is the goodbye Prussia hears in his voice.

“Its your turn now.”

There is nothing Prussia can do now but to watch and try to say all he has ever wanted to say.

“I have failed you more times than you know.”

Germany's eyes glaze for moments, until he forces his vision to lock onto his brother.

“I know. I _remember_.”

Prussia's breath stutters and muscles freeze.

“But,”

Blood trickles over his lips, a steady line, a signal.

“I still love you.”

 

* * *

 

December 22, 2012  
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

They follow the sounds of soft, arabic prayers. They creep, silent, and raise weapons.

They do not reach the door before the unseen force crushes them where they stand. Once the bodies fall, eyes belonging to inhuman things flicker, watching the door, then fading back into the shadows they came from.

Singapore feels the things he called fade away, and dismisses the remainder with silence. Some are quiet, some skitter and others fall away with a trailing chorus of unnatural sounds. Those who leave for the trees avoid the back door, where he sits outside.

Once he finishes the prayer, he lets the shrouded body fall into the fresh grave. Hopefully, Malaysia's body will remain undisturbed long enough.

Or at least, until he comes back. For now, he needs to find a bastard.

 

* * *

 

December 22, 2012  
London, England.

The fires have burned away at the last of the human touches. Where London once stood there is only darkness- not even the skeleton of buildings remain.

In the darkness of the city, light rises from the ashes. It solidifies, and forms into a being.

To call her human is a mistake no one could make.

Titania of the Fey surveys the land. There were no survivors in London. She knew elsewhere there were lingering pockets of humans, but here, the land lay bare for her to reclaim. She smiles, and calls.

**Come.**

With one word, her kin surge to answer her. Beings blend out of the darkness and ash, or fold from the pale moonlight. They tide forth and as each reaches a certain spot, they kneel. Titania ignores the faith of her people and laughed at the ashes.

**The fool broods of Albion are no longer kings.**

Some laugh with her; most maintain their eerie silence. Titania smiles, flashing needle like teeth, but hisses as air warps around the emerging figure of a man.

“Well, I came for the dead person.”

Singapore sees flares of green light, arrow tips and clubs. He raises his hands submissively and backs away.

“This is awkward. How about we pretend to not see each other and I'll just go look for the new United Kingdom?”

The new United Kingdom.

Titania flicks her hand- a fast order to stand down. She approaches, suspicious.

**England is dead.**

Singapore replies calmly.

“And I'm telling you that someone else took his throne.”

That is clearly what she doesn't want to hear, becasue a second hand flick sends an army surging to him.

 

* * *

 

December 22, 2012  
Beijing, China.

Macau watched them.

He had done everything he could, dragging himself two meters across rubble to Vietnam's side and trying to wad a torn piece of cloth into the wound by her side. She continued to weep, and Macau's worried gaze flicked between her and the argument.

He wished they would stop.

He wanted to yell too but his voice was broken, left somewhere out on this battlefield with his shattered glasses and-

-Hong Kong's twisted body with his neck at that unnatural angle.

_Ah. Bad thought._

Vietnam lifted her now red eyes to watch Macau pale, and pull away. She watched him stagger behind a half destroyed pillar and heard the retching. She winced. And winced again when the motion caused pain to flare at a particular small injury with dirt digging into it.

“The fuck are those two doing?”

Vietnam craned her neck upwards, in the direction of the new voice, a hoarse womanly one.

“Indonesia?”

The tall woman peered down at her from behind the rock she was leaning against. Vietnam heard rocks skittering and saw a second figure draw itself up beside her.

“Thailand?”

His glasses seemed to be sturdier than Macau's, for he looked at Vietnam through intact, dusty lens and smiled.

“You okay there Vietnam?”

She nodded. Other than the gash at her side, she was spared any major injuries.

“Anyone else?”

The smile dropped. Vietnam felt her dried up heart curdle.

Vietnam noticed the spectacular bloom of red on Thailand's left shoulder and the entire front of Indonesia's clothes were drenched in dark liquid, though she could only spot the former's injuries.

Indonesia cleared her throat and moved the conversation away.

“So the hell are Korea and Japan going on about there?”

Vietnam shifted as Indonesia plopped down beside her, and Macau returned to nod at Thailand. From a pocket, Indonesia drew a packet of cigarettes. She ignored the frowns.

“Arguing about Korea's new colours there.”

Macau nodded to the mentioned person with a sigh, and Indonesia squinted over the smoke of her lit stick.

Korea's back was facing them, so she could see the alien, livid fury on Japan's features. She focused harder, and Korea's flag faded into existence. (A particular skill of their kind, to distinguish themselves from humans.)

She watched, confused at the lack of white and abundance of red, with blue that shouldn't have been there-

“Fuck- That's his north side's colours.”

Macau pursed his lips.

“He said he needed the edge. Japan,”

Macau motioned to the smaller man.

“…doesn't agree.”

A little ways from the four survivors, Korea was yelling.

“-I HAD TO! You can talk about death like it's some shitty honour all you want but I want to live! And did what I had to to be standing here-”

He motioned to China's unmoving form several meters away.

“-and not dead! You're standing here too aren't you?!”

He pushed his brother and Japan stumbled backwards.

“You had to sacrifice something!”

Thailand watched as Korea took off, and his figure flickered and disappeared as he went to his land. He saw Japan start to flicker and called out.

“Japan!”

He turned to look at them.

“Leave him be. It's hell enough as it is.”

The empire stalked towards them, anger draining out of his features with each step. By the time he reached the group, he was back to calm and surveying them.

“Anyone else?”

The answer was quiet.

“I don't think so.”

“We should search.”

 

* * *

 

Taj Mahal, India.  
December 22, 2012.

_Oh god. Oh god. He had hidden himself hastily but why did he choose here? He was buried. No way out. Why did he choose here?_

India battled solid debris with bloody hands.

_If he didn't get out, he would be buried alive. If he went out, those things would kill him._

_Could he teleport away? Was there anywhere to teleport to? Should he wait? Would waiting do anything? Worse still, would those things get to him here?_

He hears the air shift and screams.

“India! Its me and Vietnam!”

He nearly started crying.

“Thailand!”

 

* * *

 

Paris, France.  
December 22, 2012.

Prussia's fingers itched.

That wasn't because of the blood on his hands, a fraction his and mostly everyone else's, and maybe partially because his hand had gone through the equivalent of a tiger's maw. It was mostly because he had spent the next last hour holding guns and knives and every damned weapon within his reach. (The better part of the previous half hour had been spent holding his brother. and ten punching at the ground.) His finger were itching, left over adrenaline bursting under his skin and causing spasms of muscle. Maybe, he should get a pipe. Or a cigar. Or a smoke. Instead of a gun.

“Not awesome.”

Soft murmurs become loud when one trudges over quiet, burned down streets. Prussia winced at the unexpected volume (and most definitely not because of the injury on his hands). Both Prussia and Liechtenstein didn't make much noise trudging down Paris (not much noise is made when one steps on ashes), only the occasional rock skittering away or dropping into one of the many holes that seemed to have appeared. ( _How did that happen?)_

Liechtenstein looked into one, and remembered that the holes most likely connect to the catacombs. It brings an unpleasant image of fresh corpses lying beside skeletons to mind.

_Where is France?_

He's what they're looking for here, in the search for someone else. Someone that hopefully wasn't dead, like Germany and Austria and Hungary were. Dimly, Liechtenstein remembers that Kugelmugel's body was there too. The first choice to stop over was Italy's but Japan had appeared then, told them he would go check and they _(Prussia_ ) should go back to rest _(mourn_ ) after the fight _(which killed his younger brother)_.

_(It didn't make sense, Prussia had always been sure he would go first especially since his decline and WWII but why is it he finds Germany's body in his arms first? It should've been him. Yes, should have been his body on the ground-)_

“Monaco.”

Liechtenstein's voice, a tinge of warning in it, snaps him out of the reverie. Prussia looks at the distant figure and they close in.

Monaco is… different. Prussia was not close with her but he distinctly remembers her not being this- a ragged waif stumbling along the ruined road covered in dirt, ash and blood. The blond hair, reminiscent of France in Prussia's mind, looks like a mop affixed to her head.

They near her with an unintended air of caution, and her cracked voice carries itself to them.

“Do you know where the rest of him is?”

Monaco looks up from the thing in her arms and her crazed eyes meet Prussia's.

For once, he is quite lost for words. (And maybe unsure of what to say, though in the past he would say whatever regardless. It seemed wrong to do that here.) Prussia goes with a simple word.

“Um…”

Liechtenstein shifts uneasily. The attacks seems to be over so he should ask her to check on Nordics or someone else who doesn't live near here. But Prussia has to ask first.

“Monaco, is that France's head?”

Liechtenstein really starts now and Prussia curses his crude, obtuse self. She's not Hungary, not as desensitised to death like his once-friend was.

“They beheaded him.”

Monaco's voice is steady, it does not break, but the steadiness of the quiet voice reaches into some deep part of Prussia and scares him. Scares him in way he has not been scared for a very long time.

He steps away. And Liechenstein does the same.

But he looks at her, standing there, losing the exact same thing he has and some other deep part of his heart is reached, different from the other part because it is not fear here but an odd empathy. (Also because _it was his friend's head_ in her arms there.)

“Want me to help you… find the rest of him?”

The relief that settles over her changes her; it washes over her until she doesn't look like a madwoman anymore. She looks like a broken doll.

Fixing her should been done without the presence of someone unprepared to see headless corpses.

“Liechtenstein.”

She knows from Prussia's voice that he doesn't want her here. She agrees. She would like to be anywhere but the city of the dead right now. (Or near the dead person.)

“I'll go to Sweden's.”

He's probably dead too, but they can hope right?

Prussia nods absently and looks at Monaco, who waits patiently for him. (Probably because she's lost and he's probably her only anchor. Besides the severed head.) He watches her face make odd twitches and misses the parting of lips.

“Switzerland.”

Prussia starts. Liechtenstein had already gone, fading away and passing through the link that binds Sweden to the rest of his Germanic kin, so the cracked voice is Monaco's. Prussia makes a sound in response, signalling his attention.

“She would be Switzerland now right?”

Oh… yes she would get his land and probably his name since he was more prominent…

“That would make me France,”

Monaco pokes him.

“And you would be Germany.”

Monaco sees how very few words change the man before her into a ghost as lost as she is.

 

* * *

 

Pyongyang, Korea.  
December 22, 2012.

Korea has no idea where he's landed.

He's supposed to be in his capital, in bright, happy, snowy Seoul and this is a not bright and happy alley. It's wet and dingy. He's supposed to land in his capital, like every other nation who uses their pseudo-teleporting skills and this is-

-Pyongyang. His new capital.

_Ah hell._

Inwardly, Korea curses the fact that he can now curse so freely. The level negativity isn't normal. It's a Northly attribute. (It probably isn't, more likely an effect of just having gone through a violent, deathly fight but Korea doesn't care how much of a bitch he's being. This is the undeniable worst day of his life. He can act like a child all he wants.)

_Hell. Shit. Fuck. Damn it-_

His inner ranting is interrupted by a pull; another nation seeking him through his bond with whoever it was, pulling into his presence so they can either teleport to his side or into his capital. Seeing as how he is in his capital, the presence pulls itself to his side. Korea hears boots squelch as they land in a puddle of dirty melted snow, and gets ready to resume a shouting match with Japan.

Belarus however doesn't seem to be interested in yelling at him. Neither does Moldova, peaking out from behind her dress.

Korea blinks in surprise, because he doesn't think the old USSR tie is strong enough to actually link them.

“Uh, Hi, da-ze.”

Ah, the verbal tic returns. A sign of normalcy.

Belarus looks at him blankly.

Korea looks back.

Belarus opens her mouth and begins to speak, in slow Korean with too many pauses between words.

“I was looking for somewhere to go… with a living person.”

Oh. Okay. He's not the only one surrounded by corpses of people who shouldn't be dead. (China for one, or is four thousand years a good enough life?)

“Shouldn't your capital be fine?”

Korea's mouth operates faster than his fogged brain; he's taking in details like the scarf around her neck and the distinctly not Byelorussian flag fluttering behind her in half existence, without connecting dots.

“I can't. I keep ending up in Moscow.”

Ah. Okay. He sees the line of dots now, recognising Russia's colours.

“It hasn't adjusted yet.”

Moldova it seems, is going for a reassuring presence which is great because Korea is only up for the minimum amount of reassuring here. Korea's brain brings him the knowledge he needs; the land need time to adjust, recognise its new personification and ‘heart’.

“Then, um, let's go to one of your allies place.”

Moldova doesn't look like he'd land in Moldova if Korea asks him to. Korea is kinda sure they'd land in a messed up Romania or messed up Bulgaria maybe. ( _Wait does Belarus have allies? Did she even have good friends?)_

Argh.

“Can you go to Seoul?”

Ah Seoul… where, now that Korea takes his previous thoughts into account, is probably totalled too.

“The attacks happens simultaneous to attacks on our capitals da-ze. Since it's not common knowledge that Pyongyang here is my new capital, Seoul is probably gone.”

“Ah.”

The awkward silence is awkward, and more so uncomfortable. The elephant in the alley hangs between them.

Is anyone else alive?

Korea tries hard to find other things to talk about. Korea had nothing in common with the pale blond girl or the boy she's toting, save recent deaths in the family no one wants to mention. But the silence suffocate, and his reputation as a babbling monstrosity is at stake.

“We should, erm, probably leave soon da-ze. I haven't fixed the whole shoot on sight policies yet.”

The faint ghosts of a smile it elicits is enough for Korea, since it's from someone like Belarus and the response is a nice one that breaks the silence.

“Probably. I can get us to Liechenstein's place.”

“Great, da-ze.”

 

* * *

 

Rome, Italy.  
December 22, 2012.

Belgium would prefer if Italy went back to screaming.

It hadn't been pleasant to wrench a screaming, sobbing man from the dismembered body of his brother but Belgium had to do something about the missing chunk of leg and blood that most definitely half his.

But as Belgium strapped torn cloth over the wound the sound abated and became an eerie, horrible silence. Italy wasn't making a sound, no sobs or anything- hell, his breathing wasn't making any noise. Belgium had checked to see if he actually was still breathing once and yes, he was, but his breathing was quiet. No hitches or in between sobs that should have been there.

The time it took for Belgium to assume the worst out of a whoosh of sound behind her and scramble for her gun embarrassed her, especially when she turned and found it pointed at an alarmed Japan. (Her specialty was chocolate, not firearms and she hoped it would never be.)

Japan parries the gun away softly with two fingers and brings his gaze to Italy, who he is undoubtably here for.

“How bad are his injuries?”

A query, and silently ignoring the gun with Belgium is slightly grateful for.

“There's bullet wound on his lower chest, a graze of sorts but there's a broken rib near the area. His right leg is bad, but since we're not human it might end up okay.”

He didn't ask if he was alright and Belgium didn't bother with smaller injuries. These things didn't need to be asked.

Japan came closer, avoiding Romano's corpse and Belgium scooted away to give room. He kneeled down to where Italy had his back again the fallen pillar and pulled him into his arms. Uncharacteristic of him but it does the trick. Belgium repressed her relief when Italy did finally make a sound and started sobbing into Japan. That was not something to be relieved about.

She leaves, to do her own mourning. Her own, sad little mourning.

Netherlands.

She can't remember exactly where he is, or which of the far off corpses are his. So she wanders for minutes until she passed by someone alive and standing. Which earns a double take and eye rubbing, before she is assured that she has not started to see things.

“Oh, it's you.”

Indonesia glanced up, and Belgium knows whose body is at her feet. They stare at each other for moments, one a sister and the other an ex-wife, and both who know that condolences are worthless.

“Here for him too huh?”

Belgium kneels down at Netherlands's other side, Indonesia following suit, and passing a hand over open green eyes, closing them. She hears Indonesia mutter in Arabic, a farewell prayer. Belgium can't say goodbye. The finality of it would hurt her now, and maybe the pain would fade but the pain was here now. She could say good bye when the pain wasn't here.

“So how much of Asia is left?”

Belgium was going to ignore the first elephant in the room and get the second one over with. She needed to know how bad (because ‘how good’ didn't feel right) the situation was.

“Eh, seven of us I think. Haven't checked the Mediterranean yet. There might be more.”

The last bit was hastily added when Belgium's face morphed into horror.

Seven.

Belgium turned the number over in her head.

Seven.

There had to be more.

“Who?”

Indonesia chews a lip, and Belgium takes in the scent of nicotine she has always hated.

“Me, Japan, Korea,Thailand, Vietnam and Macau. India maybe, so I'm counting him. I'm pretty sure he's still here. You?”

“Don't know yet.”

“Hmm.”

There is nothing else to say, or maybe nothing they can think of at that moment but it is enough time for the silence of death to come, and become unbreakable.

 

 


	3. Post Mortem

 

The morning of December 23, 2012  
London, England.

Singapore didn't know much fey. Outside of England's whimsical fantasies of what his tamed fey were like, no one else would tell him much about fey.

He could see why. No one wanted to tell him about the screeching, eldritch things that were chasing him. The things that flew, slithered, hissed and made a hell lot of other disturbing noises their physiology didn't look capable of.

The good news was that the very fast things had yet to know where he was going. Half of them had split off, and Singapore had heard them mention Ireland. Good guess, but Singapore knew who had the crown right now.

And England had made a very bad choice because the new king was very killable. Alarmingly so even.

“Of all the people England…”

He paused once he reached the spot where the London Eye lay on its side, barely recognisable in it's battered state. Then he pulls towards the sea, towards the child's ship.

Towards Sealand.

 

* * *

 

December 23, 2012  
Reykjavik, Iceland.

Liechtenstein nearly mows down Belarus.

She pulls towards Sweden's presence, but falters halfway through the trip when she reaches over the sea. Past Sweden. Towards… Iceland?

Her falter is a marginal error- the presence that pulls her is not. Whoever reached for her lands in Reykjavik first, then Liechtenstein appears too close to the white haired figure.

Luckily Belarus is sturdier on her feet and snaps out her arm to catch the other.

“Liechtenstein.”

Belarus nods at her and stiffens when Liechtenstein's eyes sink down toward the scarf end she grips. There is something else in her hand- a ribbon. Her sister's.

“Eh, doesn't look like Liechtenstein.”

Korea's existence flurries into being seconds later, his arrival marked by a low whistle. It pulls their attention, snaps their focus somewhere easier.

“Or it could be your place. Can't tell past the shitstorm.”

The bright buildings of Iceland's capital are invisible under the paradox- ash and ice that form grotesque structures out of deformed buildings. Iceland himself looks as bad.

“If you're looking for Sweden he's dead.”

He had sensed them coming, and dragged himself over to announce his state of living. There was blood on his hands, on his knuckles, and dirt had rested all over him but it seemed that the other Nordics had effectively shielded their youngest.

At the cost of their lives.

“Where'd you find a smoke, da-ze~”

This is easy for Korea, to ease into things he is not part of. He saunters over to Iceland and holds out a hand.

“Share some?”

Iceland eyeballs him, but it seems that Korea was warm enough. He plucks a stick from his pocket and passes it over.

“They were in Denmark's things.”

Korea sits down by him, but not too near. The kid seemed to be anti-touchy at the moment. Liechtenstein shuffled around him and spoke softly.

“Where are they?”

Then she is moving in small steps in the direction of Iceland's finger. To Korea's surprise, Belarus trails her.

“It may not be wise to be alone.”

Yeah that made sense. Korea shrugged her off and patted himself down for a light. When Moldova's small hand enters his vision with a box of matches, he raises an eyebrow.

“I had them for burning… other things.”

‘Other things’ didn't sound like something he wanted to know about so Korea shrugged that off too. He could not however shrug off the two figures that materialised above the water beyond the pier and sunk into the shallows. Well at least he managed to light his smoke.

He is late in getting up, beaten to the punch by Iceland, but he recognises one. Another part of Asia, but from the south- no, south-east. Ah, Singapore. Over-achieving little kid who held a lot of things over their heads.

“Sealand?”

Wasn't that the little micronation kid? A micronation made it through the apocalypse?

“Oh the flippin irony.”

No hears the mutter as Korea jogs up to them. Maybe that's because they're staring in shock or horror. Korea himself is feeling a bit of both as the flag of the United Kingdom flares off the back of the crying child.

 

* * *

 

December 23, 2012  
Paris, France

They've been walking awhile, with an aim that makes Prussia wonder if Monaco actually knows where the headless body is. Maybe she did, but she didn't want to go alone. He can understand that. (He couldn't tear himself away fast enough once his brother became a cadaver.)

“You know where you're going.”

Well, he might as well make it clear.

“I know where the person who moved him is.”

It's not his land. His senses are dull here, but when he makes the effort to reach out, he finds someone young. Not that young anymore maybe, but young beside him. Only one person it could be then.

They move through the ghost of the city of love, treading softly as it's skeleton juts across the skin of earth as poles and stripped buildings. Prussia saw before him a complete erasure of France's presence. The shops, the buildings and what was once renowned architecture seemed out of place without the Eiffel dominating the skyline.

Monaco paused as a wind lifted ashes over the burnt corpses of frenchmen, cold and biting. They had reached The Seine.

Prussia remembered it in it's glory days, a pride of France's he never let go. Would he still think it was beautiful now, when its shore was riddled with the bodies of those who struggled to run away from the fire. Most hadn't made it, judging by clarity of the water. Unless Canada managed to clean it out in the short time he was here.

“Prussia.”

Canada's surprise is muted by his deadened eyes, darker than he remembers. Are his memories even clear enough though? Prussia cannot remember many things, things he should remember. (What was the last thing he said to France? When did he last see him?)

_Ah, never mind._

Canada moved away from France as Monaco moved near. He wasn't all that numb yet, if he could still flinch when she lowered the head. Prussia looks away from them, to give them privacy and to remember his friend as something else. Something that wasn't this.

But all he remember is war and death and something he once said in the midst of battle. If I die here-

“He said to me once that if he ever died he wanted to be sent down the Seine.”

Monaco and Canada nodded, answering and acknowledging. _Yes, he had told them the same._

And they would abide by his wishes.

Canada leaves for a while, hesitantly but willing to let Monaco have her time. Prussia follows, because he feels out of place here, where he is just an old acquaintance who has been missing for decades.

“Stay?”

Monaco it seems, does not entirely want to be alone. It is sentiment Prussia is willing to accept. ( _Only ghosts may spend their time alone in a graveyard.)_

Canada steers towards a demolished building. It was sturdy, a factor easily observable through its continued state of stability. He stepped inside what he knew to be a police station and gazed upon his goal. A french flag, clinging to its place on a wall by sheer will.

It would be fitting to shroud France the symbol of his being before his precious Seine would lead his body to where his soul had departed to.

( _Do you see that beautiful river child? That's my Seine. Isn't she marvellous?_ )

He pulls it down and walks out to a fall of ashy snow.

* * *

 

December 23, 2012  
Rome, Italy.

“Europe's gathering in Iceland. Don't know why they chose there, but Asia's planning to go to them. We found India by the way.”

Indonesia rattles off facts because Italy has stopped crying and god she'd rather listen to sobs than this awful silence. Japan stares off, eyes too hard and too familiar. He never looked like that in the war she saw him but he did look like that in the aftermath and the aftermath had been devastating for him.

“Just India?”

“No one else.”

Air behind them warps. The arrival of someone from far away, a different continent. Two someones, it seems. Mexico pops into existence first, followed by a dazed Brazil. 

“We-we're looking for- is he-”

Italy raises his head. He locks red-rimmed eyes on her muddy pair and points in the direction of a brightening patch of sky. Mexico grabs Brazil and runs, not towards Spain but away from Italy. Mexico runs scared from someone she looked dead in the eye, to find absolutely nothing in them.

Belgium shifts, rolling rocks and debris under her foot. It makes a quiet grating sound, a reminder that she is here. Japan's voice cuts sharp, sudden as it is.

“We have Asia, Europe and America. You two check the other continents, then go to Iceland. We'll wait for the other two and make our way to Iceland.”

They feel too much relief at leaving.

* * *

 

December 23, 2012  
Reykjavik, Iceland

By the time Belarus and Liechtenstein come back it's morning and everyone is in a mess. Little Sealand is here, crying and longer little. No longer Sealand. Belarus sees him drowning in the new flag, still too big even as his body grows and adjusts. The child is still a child, but in a few days he will be in his teen years. Someone has done him the grace of lending him an oversized coat. A familiar, pale winter coat that's hemmed with ash. Canada's. He is one of the five new people to have arrived in her absence. Sealand, Canada, Singapore, Monaco and _someone who should be dead._

Belarus remembers him because she made an effort to remember the only person besides Iceland who's hair is lighter than hers and captured the attention of her brother. Russia always seemed fascinated by this man, and she could upsettingly see why. His existence was an interesting one.

A quiet voice breaks her thoughts.

“I always wanted to be nation.”

Sealand, little Sealand who has become something more, pulls the bloodied flag around him.

“But not like this. Never like this.”


End file.
